


Rose Red

by ninhursag



Category: Supernatural, Swordspoint - Kushner
Genre: Community: Sweet Charity, Fantasy, M/M, Multi, Pastiche, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninhursag/pseuds/ninhursag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Swordsman falls for a beautiful noblewoman. And her brother. It's like Supernatural as a fantasy story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is the awesome [](http://giandujakiss.livejournal.com/profile)[**giandujakiss**](http://giandujakiss.livejournal.com/)' Sweet Charity story. It started as an idea for a pastiche of Supernatural and Ellen Kushner's awesome, awesome book, Swordspoint, but [](http://giandujakiss.livejournal.com/profile)[**giandujakiss**](http://giandujakiss.livejournal.com/) said she didn't mind if I didn't stick too closely to the source, so I didn't *g*. At this stage the plot is almost entirely my own, but there are very strong elements of Kushner's world and characters here. If you haven't read the book, don't worry, you'll be fine. If you have, I hope you are amused.

Once upon a time, when he was quite young, Dean Winchester plucked a rose from a great house's private grounds. He wasn't supposed to be there at all; he was supposed to be waiting in the stables for his father being quiet and good. Waiting for another temporary job in a long string of them to end.

His father had told him how to be, had clapped him on the shoulder and said; "Don't you let them turn your head, Dean-o. The highborn like to play, but they'll never forget you're beneath them. If you let yourself forget, you'll lose."

Dean didn't forget much when his father spoke, but he wasn't thinking about that then. He was bored and restless. Better to wander the grounds and pluck the flowers than cool his heels. Better to smile at the roses in this garden. Especially when a rose came in the form of a girl, with coloring like wheat and water, with a calm, smiling mouth. The sort of highborn girl his father had warned him about.

"You're the Swordsman's boy, aren't you?" she said. She tossed her hair and offered him a pale, long-fingered hand. He kissed it, imitating the gesture he'd seen in other places. He'd never done it before, kissed a lady's hand, and it felt awkward, but she smiled like she didn't care. "I'm Jessica."

"I'm Dean," he said and made a face, lip pushing out. "He's my father and I'm not just his boy." His hand wandered to the sword at his waist, tapping the hilt.

She tilted her head so she could get a better look at the blade and winked. "No, of course not. You're a Swordsman as well, aren't you?"

"I will be," Dean said, straight out. "Not much longer now." He looked her right in her blue, blue eyes and she grinned. Not slow and formal, like a highborn lady, she just grinned, bright as a gamine milkmaid. Dean thought maybe, just this once, the mighty John Winchester had been wrong.

"And will you fight a duel for me, Dean the Swordsman?" Jessica asked. There was a flash of something that Dean couldn't really understand in her wide blue eyes. Maybe just a trick of the light.

Dean grinned right back instead of worrying about it. Then, mostly on impulse, he leaned down, snapping a rose from a briar and handing it to her. "I might. If the price was right."

She laughed and took the rose, tucking it behind her ear. It was red and still tightly closed. "A higher price than a rose from my own mother's garden," she said.

Dean laughed along with her and took a step closer, close enough to smell the citron and rose oil she was perfumed with. "How about a kiss from a lady?" he asked. He'd never kissed a noble woman but he'd like to. A lady who laughed like a hoyden had to be worth kissing.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You have to earn it first, Swordsman's boy. Then we can discuss it."

"Earn what?" a voice called from down the path. Dean turned to see a boy walking up to them. He looked as if he were Jessica's age, tall and sharp and awkward with it. Jessica turned toward him, eyes bright and wide, like a sunflower opening up.

"Sam!" Jessica called. Then she turned back and smirked at Dean. "Dean, come and say hello to my brother Samuel," she said. "Sam, look, I've found us a Swordsman-to-be."

Up close, the boy was as pretty as his sister, if dark to her golden and green-eyed instead of blue, with red cheeks and tanned skin. He didn't look anything like her until he smiled, wide-open and a little wicked. Their smiles were identical and Dean had to lean back a little, catch his breath at the impact.

"Hello, Swordsman," Sam said, in a careful drawl, so refined that it was almost a parody of an upper-class accent. He was tall up close, taller than Dean was. He wound one arm around his sister's waist, pulling her close, and held out the other to Dean. "And would you fight a duel for us if you were hired?"

Red-cheeked and sharply made. A rose with thorns. Dean took his hand and smiled at him, wide-eyed like he'd never seen a rose before. "I might. Do you need a champion?" he said and raised an eyebrow. Sam's smile didn't waver, but there was something strange and sharp in the glance he exchanged with Jessica.

"We might, I'm to be married, and we're not sure he'll do," Jessica said, and her eyes narrowed in speculation, like she was a fishwife and Dean was a barrel of apples for sale in the market. "What's the cost, you said? A kiss?"

Sam laughed, as bright as breaking glass. "I'd pay that price," he said. "Easy enough."

Without waiting for Dean's response he leaned forward, getting in closer and faster than he reasonably should have. His mouth tasted too sweet, like bad wine and honey cake. He was rough with it, teeth and tongue, stronger than a boy with a noble's accent had any right to be.

He left Dean gasping, clinging to the silk of his shirt. "A kiss in exchange for a Swordsman. Sounds oh so theatrical. I hope it will be worth it," Sam drawled. His cheeks were even pinker and his voice was rough, but otherwise he was unaffected, smiling.

Jessica laughed and took her brother's hand again. "I thought I was the one he wanted to kiss," she said, but she didn't step forward.

Dean shrugged. He tried not to shiver, tried not to follow Sam with his eyes. "I'm not complaining," he said.

He never did, not when he climbed the crumbling brickwork into a tower room that night and lay on a bed of the softest linen he'd ever seen. Not when he climbed out again, early, just before dawn when it was cold and wet. His father glared at him and asked him where he'd been.

"Looking at a rose," Dean said. It almost hurt to smile; his mouth was too kiss-swollen. He couldn't complain.

"Dean," his father muttered and shook his head. "You know better."

"Yes sir," was all Dean could say. But when they rode out he was already wondering when he could come back.

Not two months later, the same day he buried his father, Dean was in a tavern when he heard the talk. Idle chatter, nothing more and he was almost too drunk to hear it. To hear anything at all.

There was a woman at a table by the fire, dressed in far finer clothing than anyone else in the room. She was shaking her head all gloomy-like.

"Poor Jessica Campion," she said, in that loud way a person had when they were talking about the horrible things that had happened to someone they didn't really know. "And on her very wedding night. I heard… I heard she was burned alive in her own bedchamber. Such a misfortune for her lady mother."

"It was no accident. A fire like that and only the girl hurt? There's a curse on that house, you mark me," her companion said and shook his head. "They would do well to keep a close eye on that brother of hers if they want to keep any heir at all."

The woman just shook her head. "A little late for that, I heard. They already lost him." Then she stopped and looked around, like she remembered where she was, and didn't say anything more.

Dean closed his eyes and remembered a rose, a kiss, a soft, soft bed and two warm laughing children to fill it. Who had needed a champion. Too late for him to ever go back and be that.

He shouted for another drink. Sickly sweet bad wine that tasted like the inside of Sam Campion's willing mouth. He thought the taste might be glued to his insides, like the stink of wet mud when he'd buried his father. Dean's father was gone, and so was pretty, shining Jessica Campion. And maybe her brother too.

"I'm going to the city," he told the barmaid who brought him the bottle. "I'm going to be the best swordsman there is. The one they all want to beat."

She smiled at him and patted his knee. "You'll certainly be the prettiest," she said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll be the best there ever was," he said, with the careful enunciation of the very drunk. "He'll get what he paid for."

/

The next time he saw Sam, it was years down the road and he almost didn't recognize him at all.

Dean's blood was thrumming in his head and the world was clear and sharp in the way it only could be in the aftermath of a fight. He took the time to clean his blade, slow and easy, while the crowd hissed and shouted around him, wager money and insults changing hands with dizzying speed.

His former opponent was lying huddled on one side, clutching his stomach like he could keep the contents inside that way. Dean frowned down at him. "Look, don't do that," he said. "There's a doctor on the way."

The man blinked and gurgled at him, and Dean wondered if he was going to live to see a doctor. If it even mattered. "Next time, be more careful who you challenge," he told the man.

Dean sheathed his sword and stepped over the prone body to get to the bar. He was almost there when he stopped short. There was a flicker of something behind the crowd. The impression of a very tall man, dressed in black. Green, green eyes and the shine of a brilliant white smile flashing in the firelight.

Dean's breath caught and he turned toward that smile, as caught as a well-trained hawk homing in on his perch. He could almost smell the heavy scent of roses and desire.

When he got there, it was Sam and Sam was smiling, but not the way Dean remembered. It was a bland smile, empty. He looked different; almost another man altogether from the one who'd stood in the sunlight in his mother's garden. Held his sister and kissed Dean. There was no recognition in Sam's eyes.

"They say you kill your lovers," was the first thing Sam said to him. His voice was still honey smooth and his mouth was still wide and pink, even if the rest of him was ragged and uncombed. As ragged as the worn out students' robe he wore. He looked like a dozen other boys fresh from the university and penniless. Just taller and ten times as arrogant.

"Really?" Dean replied, because he had no idea what to say. It wasn't-- it wasn't true the way Sam meant it. There had been Cassie, who laughed like a bell and was the closest girl he'd ever seen to Jessica Campion even if she were dark to Jess' fair. Cassie, who'd-- who had died. "They say that?"

"Yes." Sam shrugged and took a step closer. Dean wondered what they really said, to put that gleam in Sam's eyes. "You are Master Winchester, aren't you? That's what the barmaid said. They say you're the best."

Dean smiled narrowly. "That's what I am," he said. It was a simple truth. "Until someone beats me."

Sam peered down at him and nodded slowly. "You can kill me if you want," he said, smooth and easy, like it hardly mattered at all. "Or fuck me. You can do both, but I'd fuck first and kill second, otherwise the smell would be hard to stomach."

Dean drew a breath through his teeth, mostly to steady himself, and then laid a slow, careful hand on Sam's arm, like he was trying to pet an alley cat. Sam just raised an eyebrow at him. "Your name?" Dean asked softly. It was obvious that Sam had no idea Dean knew it.

"Sam," he said. His eyes were a wide, blank green, as if this conversation weren't going where he expected. He couldn't look away from Sam's uncertainty. Hypnotic. "I'm Sam."

"Come on, Sam," Dean whispered to him, forcing the smile down. He spoke in an easy, gentling tone. "Come with me." He steered Sam out through the tavern crowd and into the open air with a guiding hand on his elbow. Sam came wordlessly and Dean wondered if he really expected to die tonight.

Sam didn't smile at Dean, but he let him lead the way upstairs to his tiny maze of rooms over the laundress' shop. Upstairs, where Dean built up his fire high, like wood didn't cost money and Sam hovered next to him and watched, like the flames had hypnotized him.

"It's warm," Sam whispered, like a child fascinated by a magic trick. The firelight flickered, painting his pale face with streaks of shadow and flashes of red and gold. Then he turned back to Dean and his mouth twisted so that he showed his white, gleaming teeth. "Are you warm, Winchester?"

Dean smiled back and held out one hand invitingly. "My name is Dean. Come and find out," he offered.

Sam paused, rocked back on his heels and inspected Dean out of narrow eyes for a long, speculative moment, like he hadn't offered himself already, for death, for whatever Dean wanted. Then he nodded once, decisively. "Yes, all right. Dean."

When he stepped over to Dean and leaned down his mouth tasted different than it had in his sister's garden all those years ago. Not so sweet anymore. Like wine and ashes. But his body was surprisingly strong and his hands were smooth and graceful, callused by holding a pen too long and nothing else.

Dean had expected to lead, but Sam kissed like someone who never, never followed and Dean found he didn't mind. Sam's big hands cupped the stubble rough skin of Dean's cheeks and slid down his body, pulling at fabric, catching on fastenings.

"You're really very fair," Sam whispered, wide-eyed, like that was some big surprise. "Freckles. My sis-- I knew a girl who bathed in milk and roses just so that she wouldn't have freckles like yours."

"Really?" Dean stuttered. He tipped his throat back while Sam traced those freckles with the wet tip of his tongue, drawing across them.

Sam nodded and pressed a kiss to one particularly wide freckle in the hollow where Dean's neck met his shoulder. "Really, truly. You know, I would rather have had the freckles." The firelight flickered over his face.

"I know," Dean said, but if Sam heard him he didn't say a word to indicate it. "Let me make you feel good."

"I don't think you can," Sam said, soft and serious.

Dean cupped his hands over the back of Sam's neck and pulled him in. He could feel the fast, steady rhythm of Sam's heart. "But I'm the best there is. You said so yourself," he murmured.

Sam's mouth twitched. His eyes shone. For the first time Dean caught a real glimpse of the boy he'd been. Not a mockery. "Really now?" Sam whispered. "I hope it will be worth it."

Dean nodded wordlessly and wrapped him up, close and tight. Sam closed his eyes.

\

Sam slept huddled up on one side, a little like a small child, or the man whose guts Dean had spilled. His face was clenched even tighter than his body.

He cried in his sleep, slow, silent tears that streaked down his face. "Jess," he whimpered, pulled half-awake when Dean stroked his cheek. "Jessica. Someone help her. Someone. I'll do anything."

Dean waited; to see if Sam could be quieted back to sleep or if a strange touch would jerk him awake. The second one it seemed; Sam went stiff and still for a moment, before his eyes fluttered open. His lashes were dark and shiny-wet with tears in the first dull light of the morning. Sometime during the night the fire had sputtered low and Sam's breath was visible in wispy clouds.

"My head hurts. Who are you?" Sam muttered. He covered his eyes with the back of his hand as if to shield out the weak sunlight. He was still stiff, clenched tight like he'd never let Dean lick him open the night before. Never lain loose and turned inside out over the pale gray sheets of Dean's bed.

Dean shrugged. "Dean Winchester. You asked yourself over last night. Drunk, I guess."

Sam's mouth twisted. For a second Dean would have sworn he was going to smile. "I suppose," he agreed. "Well, I hope we enjoyed ourselves."

"Yes," Dean said, simple as that. "Why don't you stay here and we can enjoy ourselves some more?" It was surprisingly easy to offer. But then he paused, when a new thought occurred to him. "Unless someone is looking for you. If it's that, maybe I can…" he trailed off, not knowing what exactly it was he could possibly do, not against the sort of people who might be looking for Sam. He had his sword and the promise that Sam didn't remember and that was all.

Sam blinked at him. His mouth curved again, almost like real amusement. Then he laughed. It was an awful sound, dry and wincing. Harsh. He flinched and rubbed his forehead like laughing just hurt him more. "No," he finally said. "I don't think anyone will be looking for me. Why would they want me?"

"Oh," Dean said, mostly because he didn't know what else to say. He cupped his fingers back over Sam's cheek. Followed when Sam flinched away, gentle and easy, until he let himself be touched. "Well, I want you."

Sam laughed again, but it didn't sound as sick the second time. "Well," he conceded. "That's something. I suppose."

"So you'll stay," Dean said, and tried not to make it a question.

"Might as well," Sam said. He gave Dean a long, serious look. Then just like that, he turned away and groaned theatrically and rubbed his forehead. "That's settled. Now you might as well get me some wine for my head, if I'm staying. Otherwise I might die before you get any use from me."

Dean couldn't help the sudden burst of his own laughter. "Wine? Are you going to be an expensive guest?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yes, rather. Now where's my wine? I'm hung-over and dying here if you haven't noticed."

"Dying," Dean said and grinned. "Yes. I can see that. Wine it is."

\

Dean didn't forget what his father told him, didn't delude himself that Samuel Campion might really be his to keep. Not even when the boy settled in to his rooms, used up all of his firewood like it was free and enraptured his pet cat so that the beast never stopped following him around.

"You don't have any books," Sam told him after spending about three days in bed. He said it very seriously, like that was some obvious point he didn't understand how Dean had overlooked.

Dean laughed and shook his head. "Well, no. I can't read."

Sam just blinked and started at him. "Re-ally?" he said, vowels drawn out and elongated into what would have been a ridiculous parody of shock from anyone else, but from Sam just felt like shock. "Why not?"

"Never learned," Dean said and leaned down to kiss the surprise off of Sam's mouth and Sam let him.

The next time he walked by the market, though, he stopped in front of the bookseller's shop. The shop-girl had pretty red hair and a pretty red mouth. She leaned over so that Dean could see down her dress and Dean couldn't help but be impressed by the peaks and valleys.

He smiled at her. "I need to buy books," he said. "Educated books."

The girl laughed, easy and unshadowed. She nodded at his sword and well-worn scabbard. "Educated? We don't see many learned Swordsmen around here."

Dean shrugged and winked at her. "You haven't today. I've-- I've acquired a university student," he said. After all, that was what Sam was dressed as. "He wants books. So I need books."

The girl's eyes widened, but she nodded and her smile barely faltered. "Educated books, you say?"

Dean nodded and looked around. Most of the books looked… well, dusty. Like they would make anyone sneeze. There were a few right up in front though. With soft looking green binding, the color of Sam's eyes. "Like those. They look nice." He pointed at the not-so-dusty shelf.

The girl laughed and shook her head. "Those are for noblewomen who want books by the yard to match their wall paper."

"Ah?" Dean asked and then squirmed under her glare. "So?" She didn't glare as nicely as Sam, anyway.

"So, your student won't enjoy them, Master Winchester," a third voice said. A man's voice, in noble accents but his drawl was harder edged than Sam's. Dean spun around to see better and found himself face to face with Lord Gordon Walker. Dean shrugged and nodded at the man. Walker usually had interesting jobs for a Swordsman. Ones that paid well and were a damned sight more challenging than guarding a wedding party.

Lord Walker pressed a heavy, worn-looking volume into his hands. "Here," he said, smooth and smiling. "A history of our city. Any student would find it enlightening." He pressed the book into Dean's hands and bowed, just slightly.

Dean frowned and bowed back. "Well, you'd know, I suppose."

Walker's smile widened. "Give your student my compliments," he said. "I'm sure he really will find it instructive."

Dean bought the book without haggling, even though the shop wanted more than the cost of a bottle of excellent wine and a month's worth of firewood for the ragged thing. He thought it would be worth it if he could make Sam smile.

He should have known that Sam wouldn't. He took the book and gave it a wintry glare. "On the History and Origin of the Great Houses?" he said. "Very funny, Dean." The glare he gave Dean wasn't much better.

Dean sighed and wished he'd just bought the wine. Sam liked drinking wine just as much as reading books, he thought. "You don't like it?" he said. "What would you like to read?"

Sam just rolled his eyes and propped the book open and started reading. "It is the honor and right of the great houses to fulfill their duty to the commons," Sam read in a fake, rich sounding voice. His drawl sounded almost like a parody of itself. "It devolved upon us during those days when the old kings needed to be… replaced." His mouth curved slightly, as if he'd made a joke.

Dean's hands twitched. "Yes, that's very interesting I'm sure," he said. Maybe he would go buy that wine. He liked the idea of Sam all soft and languid with it.

"Our duty is to stand between the natural world and the other world, as the kings once did," Sam read, as if he hadn't heard a word Dean said. "Through the use of our own particular gifts. Each house is gifted with a fragment of the powers that were once held by the King--"

"Sam, I--"

Sam ignored him. Sam was really good at ignoring him, except when he was laid out across the bed and Dean used his mouth. "The Great Houses are twelve in number and innumerable in the cadet branches. Some of the gifts are quite spectacular, as with the House of Hawkesly, which commands the fertility of the land even in times of drought, or the House of Walker which shows mastery over the very element of f-fire."

Dean frowned when Sam stumbled over the word, but Sam kept going. "And then there are gifts that too often lead to madness, such as those of Tremontaine and its cadet branch of Campion." Sam smirked at Dean over the edge of the book and then slammed it closed.

"What gift is that?" Dean whispered. He leaned closer without quite realizing he was doing it.

Sam laughed, light and airy. "Those poor bastards," he said and shook his head and looked up at Dean. For a moment, Dean though that maybe he knew that Dean knew his name. Maybe. Then he frowned and looked away. His hands clenched around the book tight enough to whiten his knuckles. "They can see the future."

"Oh," Dean said shortly.

"Oh," Sam agreed. He stared down at the book for a long, blank moment. Then he tossed it into the fire.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean gasped, lunging after it as the pages caught, cherry bright in the flames.

"You shouldn't bring me anything, you see," Sam whispered. He caught Dean by the shoulder and held him back, just staring as the book was slowly eaten away. "Everything I love just burns, anyway."

Dean stopped and turned back away from the fire. He watched it burn in Sam's eyes instead. "He told me it was an interesting book," he said and shrugged. It was only money, after all. He'd just wanted Sam to like it. "If there's something else you'd rather read, just tell me and I'll get you that instead."

"Who told you?" Sam asked, sharp and interested. "The shop-clerk? Did he also tell you that book was banned? For improperly political content?"

Dean blinked. "What? I thought it was a history book."

Sam grinned, still sharp. "History is terrifyingly political, Dean. Who sold it to you?"

"Gordon Walker," Dean admitted. He wondered if Sam knew him. He didn't wonder long, because Sam's eyes went narrow and tight.

"Ah," Sam said, so softly. "Lord Walker. Did you tell him it was for me? The book? Or did he already know?"

"Tell him what? I don't even know your name," Dean replied, looking away. Sam snorted, like he knew Dean was lying. Maybe he did.

"Don't mock me. And what did he say? That the houses of Tremontaine and Campion are a walking bloodbath? That I ruin everything I touch?" Sam said, and his eyes went soft when they focused on Dean, mouth even softer, hazy and smiling. "Because it's so. It is absolutely true."

"Sam," Dean said, just as softly. "Shut up. He has no idea who you are," he added a little louder, but he doubted Sam was listening to him.

"Dean," Sam said, and took a step forward. A moment later he pressed a wet, unsteady kiss on Dean's cheek. "You think you're different? You're not. I'll ruin you too if you let me."

"Hush," Dean whispered. "Hush."

"Did he tell you--" Sam said, his eyes wide and too young looking. "Did he tell you that he was betrothed to Jessica Campion? Before her unfortunate circumstances came to light, I mean."

"Sam?" Dean whispered. "What circumstances?"

"I remember who you are now," Sam murmured. "But you knew who I was all along." He turned away from Dean and stared out the window. "I have to go."

"What? Go where?" Dean said, in a much calmer tone than he thought he had any right to.

"I don't want to ruin you," Sam said, just as calmly. There was something steady in his eyes that Dean didn't like the look of at all. "You haven't been anything but kind to me." He turned and walked out the door, wearing nothing but the ragged student's robes he'd come to Dean's home in.

Dean counted ten breaths before he buckled on his favorite sword and followed Sam quietly. The words kept playing back in his head. Did he know that Gordon Walker had been betrothed to Jessica Campion? Did he know that?

He trailed Sam quietly, but not using any particular skill. He didn't need any, not when Sam never even turned around, like it had never occurred to him that anyone would come after him. Dean didn't know why that made his stomach clench.

It was no surprise when Sam stopped in front of Lord Walker's tall, expensive looking, townhouse and pounded on the door. Dean watched him for a long moment, and then walked around to the other side and climbed in the back window. It was ridiculously easy; Walker hadn't even bothered to hire guards.

Dean had to sneak around a few stray servants, but finding Sam inside wasn't difficult either. He just had to follow the shouting. That was the wonderful thing about Sam, the shouting was always a dead giveaway.

He stopped in front of a heavy brass door and heard Walker's calm, mocking voice, almost drowned out by Sam.

"You killed her," Sam howled. "I know it was you. That's your gift, isn't it? Fire."

"Better death than scandal," Walker said. Dean couldn't see him, but he could imagine his smile. He bit his lower lip. "She was pregnant, wasn't she? She died pregnant."

"Shut up!" Sam hissed. "You don't know as much as you think." Dean could hear the roughness in his voice; it made him want to wrap an arm around him. It made him want to do other things.

"I know it was yours," Walker drawled, easy and lazy. "Your own twin sister and you fucked her. Very refined, my boy. Almost decadent enough for a king. She was my betrothed. How could I have my name connected with a sin like that?"

Sam made a noise that might as easily have been a laugh as a sob. "Shows what you know. The baby wasn't mine," he said. "It so happens Jess fell in love with a Swordsman. Love at first sight, like something out of a play." Dean's fists tightened. He remembered linen sheets, the finest he'd ever felt. He remembered Jess and Sam and laughter.

"A Swordsman?" Walker laughed. "Well, that _is_ better than incest but it hardly matters now. She's dead and buried. Once you're gone, so will be the scandal."

"Ah. So you lured me here to kill me," Sam said. He clapped his hands lazily. "Very dramatic. Luckily, I know one other thing you don't."

"What's that, boy?" Walker asked, lazy and self-confident. Dean could hear the sound of a blade being unsheathed by a practiced hand.

"I hired a swordsman to fight this particular battle for me," Sam said, and Dean could hear the bright, broken edge of his smile even before Sam opened the door for him and let him see it.

"She was pregnant," Dean whispered and looked right into Sam's fever-bright eyes. He could see a child, with Jessica's eyes, with Sam's. A child that smiled at him. A child that could have-- should have been. "You didn't tell me."

"I'm not very good at telling secrets." Sam's broad, bony shoulders rose and fell quickly. "Will you be my champion anyway?"

Behind Sam, Lord Walker was glaring. "Whatever that boy told you he'd pay you, Master Winchester, he's not good for it. He's cut off and penniless. I, on the other hand--"

Dean didn't let him finish. He edged Sam aside gently with a nudge of the elbow and drew his sword. "Don't bother," he said. "I'm his champion. Her champion."

Walker stopped for a moment and then he smiled. "Ah. I see. You would be the Swordsman. How absolutely common." He raised his blade in salute.

Dean heard the sound Sam made from behind him, rough and half-broken. Heard it and let it fuel him. "He's a better man than you, my lord," Sam said and all Dean could hear was pain. Sam the way he was now-- all shattered glass that he cut his own hands and heart on. Sam the way he could have been, with Jess in the light. A child.

"And you're fucking him too, aren't you, _my lord_?" Walker said and laughed. "A young idealist who makes his bed in the muck. Just like your sister," He looked at Sam, bright mockery in his eyes. He looked right passed Dean, like he was common, invisible.

Dean moved while Walker laughed. He thought of Jess and cut Walker's vocal chords first. There was no point alerting the servants-- that would just be messy.

Dean could feel Sam's bright, burning eyes on him while he finished Walker off. He was careful and neat and he took his time until there was nothing but quivering meat lying on the once immaculate rug. Sam never said a word from start to finish, so Dean didn't either. Instead he cleaned his sword on what was left of the rug and then turned and offered Sam his arm.

Sam took it. Dean took Sam home.

His own rooms seemed different, shabbier and more real after Walker's house. But Sam was there with him, standing up too straight, shoulders tight and mouth tighter. Pale and beautiful with eyes wide and bright enough to look drugged. Dean could smell his sweat, could almost feel the nervous tension vibrating in his body.

"So now what?" Sam whispered.

Dean smiled without realizing he was doing it. He could only feel the stretch of his lips when he bent to his knees and reached out to kiss Sam's hand. Sam's fingers were warm and a little damp. Sam's eyes went even wider and he shook his head, reaching down like he was going to grab Dean and pull him back up.

Dean just smiled again and shook his head, still kneeling where he was. "Now? Now, I'm your man, my lord," he said gently. "You can command me to anything."

"My lord?" Sam spat. He shook his head and his face went even tighter. "I'm lord of nothing. Who is it you think you're speaking to, Master Winchester?"

Dean couldn't help but laugh. He felt warm, easy, looking up at Sam's angry, incredulous face. "To you, Sam."

Sam opened his mouth, his eyes cat-narrow and intent, like he was going to say something horrible. Then, just like that, he seemed to think the better of it. He could have reached out to draw Dean up, but instead he slid down to his knees so that they were face to face.

"Really? Well, if you're speaking to me, you'd do better to look me in the face, Dean. I can't see you from down there." Sam's face was set, determined. Like he'd never heard what Dean's father had said about nobility. Like no one had ever told him a Swordsman wasn't his equal.

Dean stared at him with a strange kind of wonder and cupped his fingers around Sam's face. They were still stained with dried blood, but Sam hardly seemed to notice when he tilted his chin and kissed them, light and easy.


End file.
